


lead balloon

by scrapbullet



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-17
Updated: 2010-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:02:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robert Fischer is a pale imitation of his former self.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lead balloon

"Mr Fischer isn't seeing anyone right now."

The nurse is stern; blonde, pretty and plump but stern nonetheless, and Cobb deduces that it's highly unlikely that he'll be allowed to see her patient. She scowls -- her name-tag proclaiming in lurid block capitals _MS ANDERSON_ \-- shoo-shoo's him off and turns back to her work, pale face drawn down into an expression that speaks only of great stress.

Six months after the liquidation of Fischer-Morrow, Robert Fischer went off the radar. Newspapers and gossip mags speculated, of course, but there were no scandalous stories or photographs to print, and after the obligatory period of indignation from those who'd invested stock in the company, interest dwindled until there was not a soul in the world that knew such a man even existed.

None but Cobb.

And a select few others, of course.

Eames had said he was foolish. Arthur had protested at first, before acquiescing as he always did, said to be careful as he'd held James close, Phillipa looking up at her father with accusing eyes.

Careful? When is he _not_ careful?

Ms Anderson, engrossed in some paperwork of some sort, near jumps out of her skin as her beeper sounds, loud and grating, and without an upward glance she hurries through a door behind, flat hospital issue shoes slapping against the tiled floor.

Seizing his chance Cobb slips through the double doors, unimpeded, into the recreation room.

Robert Fischer is a pale imitation of his former self.

Oh, he'd always known the man to be -- no, no, what's the word? Fragile? Delicate? -- ah, it doesn't matter, the fact remains that the product of his last _job_ is insanity; the mark imprisoned in the cold, four walls of a mental institution, blue eyes glassy and staring sightlessly at the nurses that attempt to engage him. White and too thin Robert's cheekbones stand in sharp relief, though his hair and lashes are as dark and lustrous as Cobb remembers.

This? This is their failure. He'd incepted Robert to insanity, just as he did so with Mal to her tragic death.

Sliding into a seat beside the unmoving man, Cobb leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers. He'd never thought for one moment that planting the mere idea of a father's love could be so _damaging_ , never thought that it could grow and fester and drive Robert mad.

Coming face to face with his lead balloon is certainly... insightful, to say the least.

"Robert?"

Eyelids flicker, brief and like the quick, vulnerable beat of moth's wings. Robert doesn't move.

Sighing, Cobb runs a hand through his hair, bites his lip. In a way this is worse than Mal, worse than watching her slowly tear her world to pieces before finally killing herself. In a way this is so much worse, because Robert was nothing more than a means to an end, and what Cobb did to Mal he did out of selfish love.

He moves, forward and kneeling on the floor to brace his hands against Robert's knees. There is nothing in those bottomless blue eyes, no emotion; no fear or doubt or worry; no joy or happiness.

And it's his fault.

"Robert, I know you can't hear me," Cobb laughs, soft and self-deprecating. Humiliatingly enough his eyes well up with unshed tears, and he quickly brushes them away lest anyone argue against his tentative masculinity, "I know you can't hear me... but I'm sorry." He cups Robert's face, presses their foreheads together and _breathes_ , breathes deep because the air exhaled from Robert's lungs is the only indication that he's even _alive._

Robert doesn't move, silent and still as the grave.

" _Fuck._ " Cobb clears his throat, wipes his eyes once more. Tears are traitorous, and on impulse he presses his lips to Robert's cheek, wanting nothing more than to see something, _anything_ to indicate that there is someone home, someone there.

There isn't.

Failure tastes oddly bitter, Cobb supposes as he pulls away, rises to his feet. Robert Fischer doesn't move, doesn't speak and it's then that he realises that this entire visit has been utterly futile. What was he expecting? That he could somehow _fix_ this? Fix this like he couldn't fix Mal?

"I'm sorry."

When he walks away he doesn't look back.

*

No-one is there when, in the dead night, Robert awakes. No-one is there to soothe his nightmare, to stroke his hair and kiss his brow. No-one is there to fight off the demons, to keep him safe, and as he curls into himself like a small child there is recognition in his eyes; something that might even be pain.

And when he whispers -- " _Mr Charles_ " -- his voice low and choked from months of disuse, no-one's there.

No-one's there.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Stolen My Past](https://archiveofourown.org/works/128371) by [unsettled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled)




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